Artists and Vagabonds

My mother was batshit crazy. Later in life, I realized that she suffered from narcissistic personality disorder. As a child, there was a feeling that if I didn't serve or please her, she wouldn't love me. I recognized from an early age that her love was very conditional. I became the court jester; I made her laugh to avoid her vengeance. She was physically abusive and thought nothing of hitting another person, relative or stranger. She covered my basic needs. To her, that was all that was required. She relocated me all over the country, pulling me in and out of schools at her whim. As an expression of her enmeshment, she violated me as a child, which continued well into my twenties. I wasn't allowed to talk to anyone about my homelife, or she would become violent and immediately move to another town. I began to hate her. Hating her made me feel very guilty. All the warm TV moments and societal norms said that one was to forgive and love their parents. My father was inept, and my mother was the devil incarnate. There wasn't much to love. As I became an adult, I realized I was a lesbian. That was when all hell broke loose!